


Art Imitates Life

by MollyC



Series: Not In Kansas [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 6.15 The French Mistake, Baby's first porn, Barebacking, Bloodletting, General S6 spoilers, M/M, Not really RPF, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyC/pseuds/MollyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Remember how I said J2 got me good yesterday?  Yeah, that was maybe less of a joke than I originally thought."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Misha first sees them he’s kind of blown away, because Jensen is not on set and yet he’s within twenty feet of Jared, apparently by choice. Misha’s in costume, fresh from an hour standing in strobe lights in front of a wall that will get CGI wing-shadows on it later, so when Jensen calls out “Cas,” Misha hides his smirk and plays along. Jensen’s in full Dean mode; Misha riffs on his lines for the episode until the laughter gets the better of him. He’s not clear on how Jared managed to talk Jen into this, given that they don’t, well, _talk_ anymore, but he supposes they had to thaw eventually. As they’re leaving, Misha throws Jensen a wink and licks his lips meaningfully. Jensen looks utterly panicked for a second, and hustles Jared away. Misha’s kind of puzzled, but amused, and at least the joke’s good for a tweet to his amigos.

* * *

By late that evening, he’s less amused. It’s not like they had any special plans, but Thursdays have been date night for a while now and he’s frankly been looking forward to it all week. And while Jensen’s apartment is nice, Misha’s not in the mood for sitting in it alone. When ten rolls around and Jensen hasn’t shown yet, Misha cracks and calls him.

It’s half a ring short of going to voicemail when finally Jen picks up and says, “Hey, uh, Misha.” It sounds for all the world like he’s still in character.

Misha doesn’t bother concealing that he’s a little hurt. “Where are you, sweetheart?” he asks, with no preamble. “Been waiting since I got off set. What, did Singer decide to keep you late?”

There’s a pause, and then a noise like someone covered Jensen’s phone with a hand and yelled _Son of a bitch!_

That right there is where a wild thought hits him. Misha feels his eyes narrow. “Jen?” he says, keeping control of his voice, and…not-Jensen replies after a second, “Yeah. Um, I’m sorry, man, it’s just S-Jared and I got to talking.”

“Oh,” Misha says. “Well, I don’t want to keep you from him, it’s great you guys are talking at least, but I was really hoping to see you after the last few weeks—you know, not at work.” This is blatant bullshit; they’ve actually spent more time together than usual recently. So when not-Jensen answers, Misha feels a thrill of excitement. “Yeah, again, sorry about that,” he says. “I’ll finish up. Where are you?”

“I’m at home,” Misha says sweetly, another test; he still has his own apartment, even if his stuff, like Jensen’s, is about evenly split between his place and this one. “Oh,” not-Jensen replies, flustered. Misha keeps any hint of his grin out of his voice, says, “See you when you get here,” and hangs up before not-Jensen can reply.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s really, really tempted, but in the end he leaves his souvenir fourth season trenchcoat in the closet. He could play it off as payback for the joke earlier (even though he’s pretty sure that it _wasn’t_ a joke), but not-Jensen’s probably wound tight enough that poking him pointlessly is a bad idea. Misha settles for a white button-down shirt and dark slacks, no jacket or tie either; he’s going for evocative rather than blatant. He digs a bottle of scotch out of the back of the liquor cabinet and pours two doubles when he finally hears Jensen’s keys rattling in the lock. He meanders into the front hall, glasses in hand, as not-Jensen is shutting the door.

“Hey, babe,” Misha says easily, handing over one glass. Not-Jensen takes it and downs half immediately. Misha’s smile widens a bit—Jensen hates scotch.

“Hey,” not-Jensen says, sounding like he’s within moments of freaking out. Misha thinks it over, quick, and decides to bet on what he knows and a conman’s ability to adapt to his character. He curls his free hand around not-Jensen’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss.

Not-Jensen goes predictably stiff for a long second, and then relaxes into the kiss right before Misha would be forced to show he noticed. They stand there kissing for a while; Misha fumbles his glass onto the hall table because really, he needs both hands to do this properly. This guy doesn’t kiss like Jensen, who knows what he likes but is sometimes a little tentative about getting it; this guy goes straight for, as it were, the throat, and every second that passes solidifies Misha’s certainty about who exactly he has here, kissing him with the taste of scotch on his tongue. It doesn't make any sense; it's completely impossible. But he's sure anyway.

After a while Misha pulls back and smiles into not-Jensen’s wide green eyes, one hand playing with the short hair at the back of not-Jensen’s neck. “I was gonna ask if you needed something to eat,” he says, teasing. Not-Jensen produces a grin that would probably convince anyone who wasn’t Misha—this may not be his boyfriend, but he shows and conceals strain in many of the same ways—and says, “Nah, I’m good.”

Jensen would’ve made a joke about how he could maybe put something in his mouth. It doesn’t even seem to occur to not-Jensen, and Misha decides he’s got to have this. He purrs, “Well, then. Let’s go to bed.” For a second not-Jensen freezes again, and Misha has a flash of worry that he’s pushed too hard. And then not-Jensen makes a what-the-hell face that makes Misha want to laugh out loud. Not-Jensen, _Dean_ , has obviously just realized that there aren’t any consequences for him here.

When he speaks again, Misha pushes his voice down a little—not Castiel-rough, but hinting at it. “Come on,” he says, and wraps a hand around Dean’s wrist. He tugs Dean down the hall, rubbing his thumb in slow circles over the pulse point as they go.

When they get past the bedroom door, Misha gives Dean a few seconds to take in how the bed’s only used on one side, the way that happens when someone’s used to sleeping with another person, and then wraps them up together again to kiss. Dean goes along with it at first, but then he seems to realize what he’s doing and pulls back enough to look at Misha’s face. “Are you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, and Misha quirks an eyebrow at him, thinking fast. “Why wouldn’t I?” he replies. In fact he wants to do this like he wants to keep breathing, pretty much, but he doesn't know how much urging Dean's going to need.

“I just, I dunno,” Dean says, the least convincing protest Misha’s ever heard. He brings his hand up and rubs his thumb over Dean’s lower lip, a gesture Jensen loves and it looks like Dean does too, because his eyes flutter half-closed and he’s breathless when he says, “Jesus, Cas.” And then goes stock-still, staring at Misha like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Misha crows internally in triumph, but on the outside he gives Dean a wicked, knowing smile and says, “Oh, is that how we’re playing it tonight?” He schools his features into impassivity, squares his shoulders, and lets his voice fall all the way into Castiel’s range. “I know what I want, Dean,” he says, and Dean twitches, but Misha doesn’t think it’s in the bad way.

Misha and Jensen have played this game before—of course they have, given their day jobs; they’re both actors, for God’s sake, and playing roles is just as natural in the bedroom as on set. (Plus, it became clear pretty early in Misha’s run that Cas and Dean having eye-sex was good for ratings. Misha adores fangirls, especially when they give him an iron-clad excuse to mack on the pretty.) So Misha has had occasion to think about how Castiel would do this kind of thing, and it’s liberating: zero to sixty in no time flat, demanding but eager to give as well, not necessarily graceful, but always controlled until he’s not anymore.

Misha grabs Dean by the collars of his shirts and hauls him in to kiss him. He falls into the motion with a startled squeak that Misha knows he’ll deny unto death if it’s ever mentioned. Misha lets their teeth clash a little, lets it be awkward, and is terribly satisfied when Dean puts one hand on the back of his neck and starts directing the kiss. They settle into a rhythm soon enough.

After a few minutes, Misha pulls away to speak against Dean's lips (God, those lips, just like Jen's). “This isn't enough,” he says, still Castiel's voice but allowing the breathlessness he's feeling to color it. “Dean. Dean, I need...” He trails off, shakes his head as if frustrated, ready to come up with something else if Dean doesn't fill the gap.

But Dean comes through. “You need to get this off,” he says, plucking at Misha's shirt. Misha nods and reaches for the buttons, maintaining eye contact the whole time only partly because it's in character; he loves Jen's eyes, and Dean's have the same sweet beauty. Dean shrugs out of his flannel shirt, sets his hands on the hem of his t-shirt, and yanks it off. Misha's hands fumble on his last button as his gaze flickers over Dean's chest—because if he needed any more proof that this isn't his Jen, it's right there, on Dean's left shoulder.

There's no tattoo, nor any of the other scars Misha and Jensen have theorized Dean might have, but the handprint is clearly visible.

Misha realizes Dean is staring at him staring at the scar, and does the only thing that springs to mind: he puts his hand out and touches it, but not _quite_ lined up correctly, like he’s playing his part but can’t actually see it. And in Dean’s world weirder things happen every day, so he buys it. They stand like that for a few seconds, with Misha’s shirt hanging open and his right hand on Dean’s shoulder, the eye-sex in full swing—it’s like that day filming in the beautiful room, but better because they don’t have to hold anything back.

This time, though Misha’s pretty sure he starts moving first Dean meets him halfway, and this kiss is frantic. Their hands scrabble at belts and buttons and zippers. Misha’s pants are easy, because he’s only wearing socks; Dean’s jeans get hung up on his boots and Misha makes Castiel’s you-humans-are-so-limited noise as he pushes Dean back to sit on the bed. He comes close to tearing a fingernail getting the damn boots unlaced, not that he cares a bit, and yanks them off Dean's feet with impatience that's only half Castiel's. Or rather, it's _all_ Castiel's, and so it's all Misha's too. And Castiel has wanted this for _so long_ , has since his light first fell on Dean, standing before the rack with a razor in his hand; Castiel has wanted it since before he knew what it meant to want.

Misha is going to get Castiel what he wants. For once, the poor bastard is going to have what he wants.

Dean's breath is coming short and rapid as Misha surges up to kiss him again. They're both down to underwear, and Misha has a fleeting thought that he's glad he picked practical, boring briefs this morning; Castiel is not the kind of guy who wears silly underpants, and you never know what's going to push someone out of their role. “Lie down, Dean,” Misha says, imperious and as far from seductive as it's possible to get, but Dean swallows. “Cas, do you, I mean—”

“Lie. Down,” Misha repeats, and shoves Dean in the chest. Leverage substitutes nicely for inhuman strength, and anyway Dean isn't exactly fighting it. “Cas,” he says to the ceiling, even as he's working his way up the bed. Misha slides onto the mattress between Dean's knees and leans down to kiss him again, Misha's hands planted beside Dean's head, their bodies pressed together from the thighs up. Misha feels the hard line of Dean's erection against his own, and he can't help grinding into the pressure. It makes them both gasp, and Dean moans “ _Cas_ ,” the tone of his voice going straight to Misha's dick.

Misha grits out, “I want _this_.” Dean manages half a smile and he says, “Yeah, I'm getting that.” He arches his back and slides them together again; his hands settle on Misha's waist, fingers flexing and relaxing as they rut into each other. Misha licks down Dean's jaw, bites at the tendon of his neck. His hands are shaking, a fine tremor, and he doesn't try to stop them.

When he sits back on his heels, Dean whines in protest; Misha doesn't give him long to worry, grabbing the waistband of his briefs and tugging at them until Dean gets the hint and picks his hips up enough for Misha to slide them down. His cock is just as gorgeous as Jen's—honestly, Misha isn't sure it _isn't_ Jen's, technically, though then he doesn't know why the handprint's there, but he's not going to spend a lot of effort on worrying it all out just now.

Misha puts his hands on Dean's hips, and Dean is drawing breath to say something when Misha wraps his lips around the head of Dean's cock. Dean lets out all of his air in a sound that's mostly vowels and contains not one meaningful syllable. Misha settles down to work, avoiding going straight for things he knows Jensen likes because Castiel doesn't know what _Dean_ likes. Once the initial shock is past, Dean recovers the power of speech enough to curse and chant, “Oh, oh Cas, fuck, oh _fuck_ yes, Cas, yes...” Dean has his head thrown back and his eyes squeezed shut. His hips try to jerk up against Misha's hands; he's got fistfuls of the bedspread.

It's flattering as hell, though Misha's aware it's not all about his amazing skills; if their scripts are accurate Dean hasn't been laid in a while, and now he's getting the angel he's been lusting after for going on four years—or at least the next best thing. It doesn't take long before he loses all rhythm and he frees one hand to pat frantically at Misha's arm. “Cas I'm gonna,” he manages, and Misha swirls his tongue neatly around the head of his cock and he shouts wordlessly as he comes, arching off the bed.

Misha stays right where he is until the friction of his mouth starts making Dean try to flinch away, and then sits up a little, enough to see Dean's face as he opens his eyes. “Damn,” Dean says weakly, and chuckles. “Did you get that from the pizza man too?”

Misha has had three years now of Jared trying to crack him up on camera, the gigantic bastard, so he just thinks _Don't laugh don't laugh don't laugh_ and says calmly, “No. That was from the girl with him.”

At that Dean laughs for real, if briefly. When he sobers he presses his thigh up to rub against Misha meaningfully. “You didn't yet,” Dean says. “We gotta fix that.” Misha leans over him, most of his weight on his hands, and stares into Dean's eyes. “Tell me what you want, Cas,” Dean says, soft. “Because right now, you can seriously ask me for anything.”

Which practically takes Misha's breath away, because he can tell _Dean means it_. It's the kind of thing guys say when they've just gotten off, yes, but for Dean it's more than that. Misha is pretty sure Dean would agree if he asked to tie him up and beat him bloody. It's...kind of a responsibility. Fortunately, Castiel isn’t kinky, so neither is Misha just now. (Not that there’s anything wrong with kinky, but Jensen’s always been clear on Dean being a pretty vanilla guy and it wouldn’t do to freak him out.)

“Will you let me in, Dean?” he asks solemnly. Dean smiles, the first wholly unclouded smile Misha’s seen from him.

“I’m a little out of practice,” he says.

“Does that mean yes?”

Dean flashes a grin and says, “Lemme get this straight—you want me to say yes?” Misha growls at him to conceal the twitch of his lips, because calling him a smartass would definitely not be in character. “Yes,” Dean says, still smiling but serious beneath it. Misha nods and bends to kiss him again, but not for very long; Castiel’s impatience runs through him like sparks in his blood and he’s just not interested in waiting.

Except that his conscience is twinging him, damn it. Misha will admit to some dubious character traits—he is, after all, the guy who has plans to take over the world that are only half joking and once paid a two-thousand-dollar debt in _loose change_ —but he feels obliged to make sure Dean hasn't lost track of exactly what's going on here before they get any further. So he pulls out of the kiss and lets his own voice take over for a second. “Just to be clear, whose name should I be screaming in a few minutes?” he asks, and emphasizes the point with as un-Castiel-like a leer as he can manage. Dean blinks, but rallies. “Mine?” he says. Misha rolls his eyes fondly. “Come on. Are we really doing this as Cas and Dean? I'm OK with that, I just want to know.”

Dean looks abruptly, totally serious. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that's how we're doing it.” So Misha drops his smile, gives Dean a patented angelic headtilt, variety 'What intriguing human behavior,' and nods decisively. “Don't move,” he says, back to Castiel's voice (as tough as it is on his throat sometimes, at the moment he's kind of glad to have such an easy tell), and moves away from Dean enough to pull open the top drawer of the bedside table. By the time he gets back, tube of lubricant triumphantly in hand, he's starting to submerge himself in Castiel entirely. It's not that Misha is gone—not like Misha is a _vessel_ —just that it would be more effort to think like Misha than it is to think like Castiel.

It hardly ever happens on set; the realities of filming, the repetition and artificiality of it, are too much for such a fragile state. Misha loves it when it does happen, and he's completely unsurprised that it's happening now. After all, this is Dean, spread out naked and glorious on the bed, and he's hard pressed to think of anything more likely to bring Castiel to the surface.

Dean hasn't moved. At all. Misha grins, which comes out as the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. “You fight me in everything else,” he says into Dean's ear. “Why not this too?”

“I'm tired of fighting with you, Cas,” Dean says, and there's a thread of real fatigue in it that makes Misha want to _kill_ whatever it is that caused Dean to be so unhappy. So he kisses him again, nipping at his lips until the bit of tension Dean built up smooths away. This time it's Dean who pulls away to speak. “Be dumb of me to not give you what you want, anyway, right?” he says, a hint of teasing in his tone. “When I'm getting something out of it too.”

“Your logic is impeccable,” Misha says, dry as dust. He pops the cap off his tube and slicks two fingers, and then reaches down between Dean's legs. Dean's muscles are still relaxed from his orgasm, which makes the first finger gratifyingly easy, and he murmurs in approval, his cock twitching with renewed interest. “Thought I might have to talk you through this,” he says, not too clearly.

“I'm aware of the mechanics,” Misha says. “No matter how naïve you think I am.”

“You're not naïve,” Dean protests unconvincingly.

Misha just makes an exasperated noise and closes his mouth over Dean's nipple, using his teeth just enough to make Dean squirm. Dean's breathing is starting to speed up again, and he's back to half-hard. Misha would be kind of impressed, were it not for his inner angel telling him that this needs to go _faster_ , and he has to focus hard on the idea that moving faster might hurt Dean. As it is, he can at least add the second slick finger.

Dean shudders and jumps when Misha's fingers brush over his prostate, and he runs a hand through Misha's hair; the touch makes Misha shiver and he whines a little. Dean chuckles and Misha picks up his head to stare accusingly. Dean's eyes get a little wide. “No offense,” he says. “Just nice I'm not the only one going nuts here, OK?”

“I thought that was obvious,” Misha says. He's been hard enough it almost hurts for quite some time, and Dean's got to be able to feel it. To emphasize the point he grinds into Dean's hip.

“Yeah,” Dean says, casual, but his breath is labored. “Doesn't seem to be hurrying you up much, though. I won't break.”

“Don't,” Misha says sternly, “rush me.” He stretches over to suck on the other nipple and whatever protest Dean was planning trails off into panting.

By the time Misha's got him worked open, Dean is hard again and his eyes have drifted shut. He's making noise, though not much of it has actual words, and his hips jerk up every time Misha gets near his prostate. Misha works his briefs off one-handed and is starting to shift when Dean says raggedly, “Easier if I lie on my front.”

Misha pauses, but that one's easy. “I don't care,” he says. He snags a pillow and coaxes Dean's hips up till he can slide it under them. He slicks his dick and positions it, and then he says, “Dean, look at me.” The pause before Dean's eyes open is almost too long, but then they do, green rings of iris around wide black pupils, and Misha feels Castiel's smile move his lips.

He slides in slowly, carefully, watching for signs of discomfort. The _heat_ of it is almost his undoing, and he has to brace himself as he bottoms out, one hand on Dean's hip. But he doesn't close his eyes, probably couldn't if he tried, because Castiel wants nothing more than to watch Dean's face. Dean looks mildly stunned and he says “Cas” with half his voice.

Misha doesn't trust himself to speak when he starts to move. It's so familiar and so strange; he knows where the sensitive spots are, but he doesn't always get the reactions he's expecting. Dean's talking again, and the voice is Jensen's but the words are _Cas_ and _come on_ and _let it go_. Misha fists Dean's cock rough and quick with one hand, and stops even trying to control his face. He puts his free hand down over Dean's scar, letting it fall correctly this time, and as his fingers settle over the handprint (his hand fits perfectly, as though Castiel's Grace knew the shape of Jimmy Novak's flesh even in Hell)...well, that's when Misha loses himself entirely; that's when Castiel takes over. It's almost a physical sensation. It's _like being chained to a comet_.

“Dean,” Castiel says, gasping it. He'd swear he can see Dean's soul, sparks of it dancing in his eyes, the same green-gold but brighter. And Dean nods at him, quick jerks of his head, and says, “Yes. Just like that, Cas. Come on, you can let go, I've got you. Come _on_ , Cas.”

Castiel's orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut and his limbs abruptly fail to obey him; he ends up draped over the other man, panting “oh Dean, oh Dean,” over and over into the hollow of his throat.  Dean's hand combs through his hair and he murmurs reassuring nonsense as Castiel shakes against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the story about the loose change: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKMgMg3vpGs
> 
> Even though my Misha is not in fact the real Misha, he shares some character traits.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to come back to normal awareness, and even then he decides he doesn’t care that he’s sticky. After a few false starts he manages purposeful movement, though, enough to take his weight off Dean’s chest. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t felt this wrung out after sex since he was a teenager. He can't even be properly amused at the wet noises his body makes coming apart from Dean's.

“Have a good time?” Dean asks, lazy and kind of smug.

Misha—who is Misha again, thanks, but he's going to have to _seriously_ examine some memories when he has two brain cells to rub together—tries to muster a death glare, but he's pretty sure he's failing, because Dean's smirking at him. “That was intense,” he says, giving up on the death glare, and lets his head fall onto Dean's shoulder.

“I'm an experience,” Dean says, shrugging with the shoulder Misha isn't leaning on. He sounds ridiculously pleased with himself. Misha pokes him in the ribs and says, “We should take a shower.”

“Dude, you can't sit up,” Dean says reasonably. After a pause he continues, “And I'm gonna be walking funny for a day or two.”

“I can sit up,” Misha says with what dignity he can scrape together. “I just don't want to.”

 “Either way, you can't shower while you're doing your best wet noodle impression.”

“Yeah, yeah. Give me a second,” Misha grumbles.

“One thousand one,” Dean says promptly. Misha pokes him again, in a more sensitive spot this time, and Dean makes a desperately adorable _eep_ noise and then looks mortified. “Cut it out,” he orders.

“Don't wanna,” Misha says, and goes for another poke, wringing out another _eep_. “I'm warning you,” Dean says, mock-severe, and Misha puts on a resigned face. Dean nods, and is completely off-guard when Misha launches his real attack; they wrestle around for a few seconds until Dean gets hold of both Misha's hands and pins him down. Grinning, Dean says, “You do not get to tickle me, man. Even Sam doesn't get—”

Ah. Well. That puts a different spin on things. Into the ringing silence after Dean cuts himself off, Misha says innocently, “Even Sam doesn't get to tickle you?”

A few seconds pass, and then, “Fuck me gently,” Dean says, in a tone of revelation. Misha quashes the urge to point out he already did that and hoists an inquiring eyebrow. “What'd I screw up?” Dean asks him, letting go of his hands. They spend a moment sitting up, Dean watching Misha warily like he's afraid he's going to bolt for the door. As _if_.

“You didn't screw up,” Misha says. “You followed my leads just right. It's just...I already had my suspicions, so I was leading you in the wrong directions.” Dean looks confused, and then the beginnings of pissed off. “Hey, no,” Misha says. (Unlike Castiel, he did not learn everything he knows about human interaction from a man raised to be a soldier.) “This might be the coolest thing that's ever happened to me. Can you blame me for wanting to make sure it was true?”

Dean looks like he's trying desperately to be angry and not quite making it. “Dude,” he says. “I thought you were a flake.” He sounds bewildered.

“Bwa ha ha,” Misha says, deadpan. “You've fallen into my evil trap.” He makes an expansive gesture. “The more people think I'm a flake, the less they worry about me. It's protective coloration. You should see some of the sweaters I inflict on the world.”

A beat, and then Dean exclaims, “Wait, you mean when I walked in the door—”

“Jensen hates scotch,” Misha says apologetically. “You don’t kiss like him either.”

“You knew the whole time,” Dean says.

“Yes.”

“That’s why you stopped before we, I mean before you…”

“Yes.”

Dean thinks this over for a minute, and then says slowly, “I’m pretty sure I ought to be pissed.”

“You can slug me if you want,” Misha offers. “Totally worth it.”

“I need pants for this,” Dean announces, and swings his legs to the floor.

“If we’re gonna get dressed we really should take a shower first.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean says quietly, “Cas wouldn’t.” He’s staring at his feet.

“Cas wouldn’t take a shower?” Misha asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows what Dean means. “He doesn’t really need to take a shower.”

“Cas wouldn’t,” Dean repeats. “Especially not with me.” He stands and walks over to his jeans, still in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. It means he can’t see Misha rolling his eyes, which is, all in all, probably a good thing. Misha carefully does not sound exasperated when he says, “Yeah, he really would. Trust me on this one.”

“How the hell would you know?” Dean snaps, bending to snatch his pants from the floor.

“Look, Dean,” Misha says, and Dean pauses for a second at the name. “Castiel is not like any part I’ve ever had. I have some problems with character bleed sometimes, but Castiel’s different. I know things about him—I mean, things that weren’t in the scripts.”

“Like what?” Dean asks. Misha’s pretty sure he doesn’t mean to sound quite as curious as he does.

“When you guys watched _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , he was offended because of Clarence being silly,” Misha says promptly. “Sam threw popcorn at him because he wouldn’t stop bitching about it and Bobby threatened to tape his mouth shut.” He summons Castiel—it’s a little more difficult naked—and quotes, “We’re created with wings, Dean, we don’t have to _earn_ them. And humans don’t become angels.” Dean’s staring at him, so he must’ve gotten the annoyed protest right. “He liked _Die Hard_ a lot better,” Misha adds helpfully. “Kind of a weird double feature. What else?” He thinks it over for a few seconds. “He couldn’t hustle pool because he was incapable of making it look natural when he lost. You taught him to count cards at blackjack and he made a couple hundred bucks before the place threw the two of you out. He was sick for three days after Pestilence even though you and Sam were fine, and he was a really whiny patient.”

Dean has given up all pretense of getting dressed. He’s just standing there, looking spooked and a little awed. Misha says, “So those are all things you know. Stuff you don’t know’s more interesting: he beat you up because he was terrified that Michael would kill him if you said yes. In 2014, he knew future-Dean was sending him into a trap.” Misha pauses for effect. “And he would absolutely have sex with you. He just has no idea how to make an advance.”

Dean continues to say nothing. Misha sighs and gets up, taking the jeans from Dean’s hands and throwing them on the bed. “Come on,” he says firmly. “We’re taking a shower.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean balks at being in the shower at the same time, which Misha thinks is silly but he's aware Dean's gotten a little skittish so he doesn't press the point.  He scrubs off quickly and then cedes the shower to Dean.  Misha goes and gets them clothes while Dean splashes around, apparently enchanted with the water pressure.

He picks up his slacks and shirt, but only to put them away; he's pretty sure reminding Dean of Castiel any more than he has to would be a bad plan just now.  Instead he goes for his very favorite faded jeans and a bright blue sweater that Jen bought him for his birthday.  Dean is a more difficult problem; in the end Misha picks nearly at random from Jen's small store of Dean-clothes, mostly things that have migrated to the apartment through not being taken off at the end of the day's filming.  It's about time for the wardrobe-mistress to get on Jen's case about bringing everything back, actually.

The water shuts off as he's getting back, pile of clothes in his arms, and Misha debates with himself for a second before tapping.  “I have clothes,” he says.  There's a pause, and then Dean says, “Yeah, OK, bring them in.”  Misha suppresses a sigh of relief and hip-checks the door fully open.  He carefully directs his gaze no lower than Dean's collar-bone as he deposits the clothes on the counter.  “I don't know about you, but I'm starving,” he says.  “I think there's stuff for an omelet or something, or there are some decent delivery places around.”  He turns to the mirror and works on making his hair lie flat, to provide contrast with Castiel’s permanent bedhead.

“Delivery’s great,” Dean says.  “Whatever you want, I’ll eat anything.”

From the sound of it he’s calmer, which is good, so Misha just says, “How about Indian?  Place on the corner does samosas that I would seriously knife fight a man for.”  Dean makes an affirmative sound as he shimmys into his jeans.  “OK.  You want anything specific?”  His hair’s about as good as it’s going to get, so he turns to lean on the counter.

“Not tofu,” Dean says.  “I’ll eat it as hot as they make it, so however you like it.”

By dint of prodigious effort, Misha does not actually laugh at that, but Dean catches his lips twitching and visibly plays back what he just said.  For a second it’s not clear which way he’s going to go, and then he bursts into laughter himself.  “OK,” he says after a few seconds.  “That sounded way less dirty in my head.”  He smiles, and Misha’s breath catches—it reminds him irresistibly of his favorite picture of Jensen, which is good for the mostly-unzipped black sweatshirt but great for the honest laughter on his face.  Misha meets Dean’s eyes and smiles back, and all the awkwardness evaporates.

* * *

Even in Vancouver there aren’t that many people ordering Indian at nearly midnight on a Thursday, so the place promises their food in twenty minutes or less.  Misha hangs up and turns back to Dean. 

Who is sunk into one of Jensen's leather couches, looking like he's died and gone to heaven.  “This is great,” he says, when he sees Misha watching.  “I guess fake me has good taste.”

“I like to think so,” Misha says, and Dean rolls his eyes.  “In furniture, dude,” he says.  “But he can't have all good taste if he doesn't like scotch.”  Misha decides to let that one go.

Dean's near one end of the couch, so Misha sits with his back against the other arm.  The seat's wide enough for lotus position, but it occurs to him just in time that Dean might have bad associations with that; it was the way Cas-in-2014 sat.  Instead he just stretches out, bending his knees enough not to poke Dean in the legs.  “OK, so.  How did you guys get here?” he asks, and then, “I mean, it is you guys—you and Sam.  Right?  I assume if Castiel were here I...wouldn't be.”  Now that's a disturbing thought.  Would he end up a vessel, like Jimmy?  (He firmly does not engage the part of his mind that wants to mention that he kind of thinks he _was_ , for a little while there.)

“Yeah, both of us,” Dean says, oblivious to Misha's musings.  “We were at Bobby's and that dick Balthazar showed up with a song and dance about Raphael chasing Cas to get hold of the locker key.”  Misha nods; they'd passed it to him at one point during the “joke” earlier in the day.  “He—Balthazar—cast a spell and we went through Bobby's window and landed on that creepy set.”  Misha is a little puzzled by that description until it occurs to him to wonder how he'd feel on a set version of his apartment, or, more to the point, his parents' house. 

But that's not such a big deal.  What is... “So if you're here, where are Jared and Jensen?” he asks slowly.  Dean looks as if that hadn't even occurred to him and says, “I don't know.  If I had to guess, I'd say Bobby's house.”  Misha thinks that over and actually _feels_ himself go pale at the implications.  How had he not thought about this before?  He'd been caught up in his own cleverness for figuring it out, that was how.  And then, well, all the blood had been going to the little brain.

Dean is looking a little alarmed.  Misha says carefully, “So you're telling me that your best guess is that my friend Jared and my lover Jensen are in your world, walking around looking exactly like Sam and Dean Winchester, public enemies numbers one and two on every monster hitlist.”

Dean looks unnerved and says, “Don't, I mean—Bobby won't let anything happen to them, you don't have to worry.  Cas too.  He'll look out for them.”

“If he's not running for his life!” Misha says.  “Castiel's hardly even in this episode, because he spends the whole time running from Raphael and Virgil.  Seriously, I have like five pages, and most of one is taken up with a description of flashing the wings at Raphael.”  He runs his hands back through his hair nervously.

“Maybe they aren't there,” Dean says.  “Maybe me and Sam are possessing them.  I mean, when I was in the shower I noticed I'm missing pretty much all my scars.  So maybe Jensen's...sleeping.  Like Jimmy.”

"That's not very fucking reassuring," Misha snaps.  He's not actually angry at Dean, but he's scared, and pissed at himself for not having thought to be scared earlier. “Jimmy's _dead_.”

Dean stares at him, and Misha realizes that, no, Castiel never told him that.  “When they got blown up at the end of season four,” he says.  Dean doesn't seem to recognize the reference.  “Uh, Raphael.  The night Lucifer got loose.  Castiel exploded, and when he came back Jimmy was gone.”  Dean looks startled, and then angry and sad and a little ill.

“This is so weird,” he mutters.  “How do you even know this stuff?”

Misha says tightly, “I just do.  Sometimes I have dreams.”  He can’t stay sitting anymore; Castiel gets quiet when he’s worried, holds all the tension in, but Misha’s never been like that.  He stands and starts pacing.

“Well I haven’t exploded,” Dean says, clearly trying to be reassuring.  “So if Jensen’s in here, he’s fine.”

“Yeah,” Misha says.  “And if he’s not in there, something could be _eating him_ right now.”

“Not if they’re at Bobby’s,” Dean says.  “He’s not gonna let them go actually hunt anything and even we don’t usually have things just attack us.”

At that, Misha has to stop and breathe carefully for a second.  He somehow doubts it’ll be useful to ask if Dean has ever _watched the damn show_ , where things “just attack” him and Sam roughly every four episodes.  Still, Dean has a point; at least _most_ of the trouble the Winchesters get into is trouble they went looking for.  It’s not like there’s anything he can do about it right now, anyway.  “OK,” he says, and laces his hands together on the back of his neck.  “How are you guys getting back?”

“That was one of the things Balls didn’t bother to tell us,” Dean says, grimacing.  “We’re gonna cast his spell again once we have all the stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Bone of a minor saint,” Dean says.  “Found one of those on EBay.  A couple other things, but they’re all easy.”  He eyes Misha for a second.  “Dude, you wanna sit down?  You’re making my feet hurt.”

“I pace,” Misha says, trying not to sound too irritated.  “It makes me feel better.  When are you going to have the bone?”  He’s kind of proud of himself for managing to deliver that sentence without stumbling.

Dean sighs, but answers, “It’s supposed to be delivered tomorrow morning.  We’re going to have to go to the airport to pick it up.”

“No, I’ll go,” Misha says.  “My call’s later than yours since it’s such a Cas-light episode.”  That thought makes him stop pacing again.  “Oh.  Oh, they’re gonna try to make you guys _act_.”

“…so?” Dean says.  “We act all the time.”

“No, you improvise all the time,” Misha says.  “And not on film.  You don’t know how to hit marks, nothing.  There is _no_ way you’re gonna pass for Jen in front of a camera, Dean.”

“You’re saying I can’t pretend to be myself,” Dean says skeptically.

“I’m saying you can’t pretend to be someone _else_ pretending to be you.”

Dean looks like he's going to argue more, but Misha forestalls him.  “For you it's easy—Jensen gets headaches, and if we don't catch them in time they put him out for a day, day and a half sometimes.  We'll have to think something up for Sam.  Food poisoning, maybe.  It'd be easier if we could get Ginny in on it, but I don't know—”

Dean holds up a hand in a _whoa_ gesture and says, “Ginny?”

“Jared's wife,” Misha says.  “You know, fake Ruby.”

“Yeah, OK, but we _have_ to go to the set,” Dean says.  “That's where we came through, stands to reason that's where we need to cast the spell to get back.”

“But you don’t have to do it during the day,” Misha says.  “I mean, I want to get Jensen back, but I want him to still have a career when he gets here too.  You can spend a day sitting around and watching TV—hell, there’s all five seasons on DVD in the cabinet over there.  They can film around you guys for the day, maybe do my coverage, and then in the evening you and Sam can cast your spell.”  What he doesn’t say is that he’s positive Dean won’t make it through a day on set without threatening someone, shooting something, or just quitting; the situation is pretty much tailor-made to rub raw every nerve Dean Winchester has. (People telling him what to do, check.  Having to do the same thing over and over, check.  Not visibly accomplishing anything, check.  Thinking about what he was feeling, check.  It was a nightmare.)  Sam might be better off, if they couldn’t come up with a way to get him out of it.

“We can talk about it in the morning,” Dean says stubbornly.  Misha decides to shelve the argument for now, but he will seriously fake _seizures_ to keep Dean out from in front of the cameras if he has to.

* * *

They’re bickering over who gets the last samosa when Dean suddenly says, “Who’s Virgil?”  Misha blinks at the change of topic and Dean elaborates, “You said Cas was running from Raphael and Virgil.”

“Oh,” Misha says.  “Yeah.  He’s the boogeyman for the episode.  ‘Weapons Master of Heaven’, so he’s kind of pissed about Balthazar having stolen all the weapons.  He’s not on screen much.  The idea is, Balthazar gave you guys the key so you could go get the weapons, while he and Castiel lead Raphael on a wild goose chase.  The episode’s about you two trying to figure out where the locker is that the key opens and get to it without your normal resources.”

Dean chews thoughtfully for a second.  “But that’s not what happened,” he points out, waving his piece of naan in illustration.  “Balthazar just told us to keep it safe, not use it.  And I kinda doubt the stuff’s hidden in Bizarro-world.”

“Yeah,” Misha agrees.  “It’s weird.  I mean, it’s pretty obvious that we’ve got some kind of Chuck-like prophet thing going.” (He is just _not_ going to mention that one scene in “Swan Song”.  He doubts very much that Dean would take kindly to finding out God was there all along, and he really doesn’t want to contemplate the idea of _Kripke_ being God.)  “Although I think the first version of this script was a lot more meta.  Jensen mentioned something about how they wanted Genevieve to come back and play herself, but she wouldn’t do it so they had to rework.  I hadn’t even gotten mine yet…”  His eyes meet Dean’s and they both have the same idea at the same moment.

Misha gets up and says, “Jen keeps his scripts.  Hold on a second.”  The filing cabinet by the computer desk has drawers that are properly labeled, because Jensen’s picky like that, so it’s the work of moments to find the script.  A note in Jen’s square handwriting on the cover sheet says “Too bad—funny”.  Misha sits on the couch next to Dean and drops the script on the coffee table.

They stare at it for a second, and then Dean turns to the first page.  “Oh boy,” he says, after reading for a second.  “This is…man, this is just creepy.  This is exactly what we said, exactly what we did.”  They read on, Dean making occasional distressed comments.

The first difference hits during the not-joke conversation on the lot.  Misha-in-the-script actually uses the phrase “alternate reality”.  And from there it goes completely off the rails; in the script, Misha doesn’t call Jensen and Dean spends the night at Jared’s house with Sam.

The next morning, things progress as Sam and Dean were planning before Misha's call: they go to the airport and pick up their package, then to the set, where they’re roped into acting.  (Misha is gratified to see that it goes exactly as well as he expected, which is to say catastrophically.)  They try to cast their spell, and…

“Crap!” Dean exclaims.  He throws himself into the embrace of the couch, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.  “The spell doesn’t work from this side.”

“Not a huge surprise,” Misha says.  He picks up the script.  “Oh, _crap_.”  Dean’s eyes open.  “Virgil,” Misha says grimly.  “Apparently he’s coming through too.  Oh…oh, but he’s powerless here, this is awesome.  You and Sam totally kick the crap out of him.  Um, Bob and everyone have a conference call about you guys flaking out.  Hey, me again, awesome.  Come on, I don’t tweet that—holy shit.”

“What?” Dean asks.  Misha looks up at him.  “ _What_ , Cas?” Dean demands, and then shakes his head.  “Sorry.  Misha.  What?”

“Virgil,” Misha says.  “Virgil kidnaps me.”


	5. Chapter 5

Dean says, “What?” again and makes a grab for the script, but Misha dodges him and keeps reading. “Oh, hey, you ruin Jensen's career,” he says. “So that's not happening, I will seriously tie you up first. Virgil gets philosophical at me in an alley. I don't like where this is going...yeah.” He lets the script fall into his lap and closes his eyes briefly. “So do you guys know about that thing the demons do, with the goblet filled with blood to make a call?”

“No,” Dean says cautiously.

“Virgil's trying it,” Misha says. He still sounds good, but he can feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears; it's weird, because all he's done is read about his own death. It's not like it's guaranteed to happen—they've changed things already. But he's quietly terrified, and he thinks the only reason Dean hasn't noticed is because Dean doesn't look for fear on Misha's face, or rather on Castiel's.

“How much blood are we talking?” Dean asks.

“The usual collection method is to slit the donor's throat,” Misha says. “Where the donor, in this case, is me.” He sits back and sighs. “OK, give me a second, I just need to process this.”

“Gimme the pages,” Dean says firmly, and Misha rolls his head on the couch-back to look at him. Dean looks wary, but more understanding than Misha would have expected. He's holding out a hand. Misha gives him the script, pleased that his hand isn't shaking. Dean says, “Maybe you should get yourself a drink,” and turns to the script, but Misha thinks he's still keeping an eye on him.

Huh. Maybe Dean reads Castiel better than Misha thought.

He doesn't get a drink, just concentrates on his breathing until his heart slows down. He gets himself under control and Dean finishes up the script at about the same time; Dean's been reading to himself, without the running commentary.

“OK,” Dean says. “This is actually kind of better than Chuck's stuff, in this at least I don't have to read about Sam's internal guilt or whatever. Virgil's goblet thing works, and me and Sam get the lowdown from a guy who saw him, uh, saw him make the call. Virgil's supposed to go back to where he crossed, this is supposed to happen tomorrow so the day after that, 'at the time of the crossing', and Raphael will pull him back through. He goes and gets guns—very _Terminator_. He shows up on the set and shoots some people, but Sam and I manage to be there when Raphael does the spell and we get pulled back, but Virgil doesn't.” He grins. “Apparently Raphael's got a chick for a vessel now. Dude looks like a lady.” He pauses, and looks irritated. “That line's in there. This is like the laundromat thing, makes my head hurt. That's what I would say, except would I have said it if it wasn't in...yeah.” He sighs. “And here's the big surprise. The key, it's not important.” Misha feels his eyebrows go up. Dean grimaces. “Yep. This whole thing, it's all a big diversion so Cas and Balls can get the weapons while Raphael's chasing after us.” 

Misha nods slowly. That...actually makes a lot of sense. His agreement seems to make Dean angry, though. “Come on,” he says. “This isn't cool! Cas should have told us, we could handle it.”

“Castiel is under a lot of stress right now,” Misha says carefully. It's dawning on him, for real this time, that all these things he knows? They are actually happening to real people. This man sitting in front of him has _been to Hell_. And Misha has a few flashes of what Hell is that have caused him his very own nightmares, once or twice. Dean's getting ready to scoff, but Misha doesn't let him. “He probably told Balthazar to _ask_ you to help, and Balthazar decided to just throw you here. Castiel...sometimes has a hard time remembering that his allies don't think about you the way he does.”

“As what?” Dean asks dismissively. “As occasionally useful?”

Misha reminds himself firmly that Dean doesn't do this stuff on purpose; this is just how Dean deals with being hurt. “As  _important_ ,” he says. “Something other than pawns to push around.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Dean says. His body language has gone stiff and angry, though Misha knows Dean's not angry at him, exactly. “Only time Cas shows up these days is to bitch about something.”

“Dean,” Misha says, “have you noticed that he always shows up?” Dean opens his mouth, and shuts it again. “He does everything you ask him to. He _always_ comes when you call. He's your friend, Dean, I swear. But right now, his life is purely sucking, OK?”

“Yeah, I sort of figured that out,” Dean says; though he sneers it reads as half-hearted at best. “Seeing as he tells us every single time we see him about how his war is the most important thing ever.”

“Well it kind of is,” Misha says reasonably. “Raphael's a dick, he really will end the world if he wins.” He shrugs, because here he's on familiar ground—he keeps reading his lines for Castiel's scenes with Dean and wanting so desperately to explain, even while he knows that Castiel's incapable of explaining things in any way Dean can hear. It's frustrating as hell. “Look. Castiel is fighting a war he's not sure he can win. I'm pretty sure you know how _that_ feels.” Dean looks like he wants to say something, but Misha raises one eyebrow and the other man makes a pacifying gesture, if reluctantly. “He got pushed into it. He pretty much got back to Heaven after your last conversation in the Impala and had Raphael present him with an ultimatum. It was help restart the Apocalypse or start a war, and Castiel wasn't willing to help end the world.” Misha makes an executive decision to leave out a few things for the moment, for two reasons: one of the conversations he remembers hasn't been in any script yet, so he's not sure it actually happened (sometimes they don't)...and if it did, Dean's going to hit the roof when he hears about it, and Misha frankly wants Sam around for that. “He didn't feel like he could ask you for help—not because you wouldn't have helped him,” he adds hastily as Dean opens his mouth to protest. “Because he didn't want to make you feel obliged to break your promise to Sam. He told Sam he'd look out for you.”

Dean looks actually touched by that, but he says, “It just bugs me.” He says it like it's a huge admission, which Misha supposes it is for him, since it's admitting to an  _emotion_ . “He's always acting like talking to m—us is such a huge waste of his time.” He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Even when he was looking for God, sometimes he'd just show up and hang out, you know?”

Misha smiles and has to actively stop himself tilting his head to the side. “One, he's scared that if anyone on Raphael's side figures out how much he cares about you—and Sam, too, don't get me wrong—they'll use you against him. So he's trying to stay away. And two, he's afraid that if he lets himself spend as much time with you, and I do mean you, personally, as he wants to, he'll end up losing the war.”

Dean looks shocked, and Misha sighs, not bothering to hide it this time. “ Dean, have you not figured it out yet? Castiel  _loves_ you. And not in the love-for-all-humanity kind of way.”

Apparently, that's the wrong thing to say. Dean's face clouds over and his voice goes hard. “OK, that's it. You're full of it, man. I can buy sex, but this? No way.” He bolts to his feet and takes a few steps away from the couch, swiping his hand over his face in a very familiar way. Misha's starting to be disturbed by how easy it is to remember that this isn't Jensen, because that gesture is all Dean.

“Oh, for _fuck's_ sake,” Misha says, more a groan than anything else, and moves as fast as he can; he gets to Dean as the other man is completing his surprised turn and grabs him by the shoulders. “Listen up, Dean Winchester,” Misha says, and shakes him slightly to emphasize his point. “It does not matter what you think you're worthy of, OK? Love doesn't depend on you _deserving_ it. If it did, no one would ever fall in love. You don't love Sam because he deserves it, you love him because he's your brother. You don't love Bobby because he knows a lot of lore and helps you out, you love him because he's a cranky old bastard. You don't love Castiel because he's pure and perfect and angelic—you love him because he's _him_. And he loves you because you're you. And the both of you need to get your heads out of your asses and _do something_ about it, because I will be _damned_ if I'm gonna watch you crash and burn because you can't get your act together!” Dean is staring at him wide-eyed, though Misha's honestly not sure if it's surprise or anger or something else entirely. Misha takes a second to breathe, and then says, more gently, “You don't have to think you're good enough for him. _He_ thinks you are.”

“Misha,” Dean says, sounding utterly at sea. “You have to be wrong, OK? Cas...”

“How about we talk about something else?” Misha says, letting his hands fall. He takes a step back, to be out of Dean's _personal space_. “Or we could get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Sleep.” He manages to chuckle. “I was all set to sleep on fake Sam's couch when you called.”

“As far as I'm concerned, you can sleep in the bed,” Misha says. “It's a big bed, we don't have to cuddle or anything.” He smiles to make it a joke, and he's glad because that's probably what lets Dean smile back and nod. Not that Jensen's couches are bad to sleep on.

Misha doesn't usually wear anything to sleep, but in deference to Dean's delicate sensibilities he gets them both pairs of Jensen's flannel pajama pants. “I'll go over to Jared's with you to get Sam in the morning, so you guys can get your thing at the airport. But I think it would be a bad idea for any of us to go to work. You and Sam don't get to screw up the boys' jobs for them, and in the script Virgil picks me up at the set,” he says. Dean still doesn't look convinced, but Misha's confident he can get Sam to agree with him.

They climb in to either side of the bed. Dean drops off almost immediately, probably the soldier-reflex to sleep whenever you get the chance. It takes Misha a little longer, but not much—it's been a long day.

He wakes in the deep of night to movement and garbled words, and realizes it's Dean in the grip of a bad dream. Misha hesitates, because it seems likely Dean will lash out if he's touched, and tries whispering his name. The dream doesn't appear to get better. “Dean, you're safe here,” he says, Castiel's voice this time; it seems to help enough that Misha risks touching Dean's arm. A moment later he's being enveloped in Dean's limbs, and the mumbling is dying down.

Misha decides that Dean needs a decent night's sleep more than he needs to not be embarrassed in the morning, and lets himself drift off again.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam's already talking when he slides into the car.  "We have got to get out of here, man, this place is a freak...show."  He stumbles when he catches sight of Misha against the far door and gives Dean a miniscule expression that probably translates to _What the hell is he doing here?_  
  
Misha manfully resists the impulse to just say "Hello, Sam," and stare; it would be cruel, even though he isn’t in costume.  "Hi," he says instead, with his most disarming smile.  On the other side of the privacy screen, Clif puts the car back in gear.  "I'm Misha Collins.  You must be Sam Winchester."  Sam gives his brother a wide-eyed look and Dean shrugs sheepishly.  "He had it figured out before I even walked in the door," he says.  Sam transfers his stare to Misha, who shrugs in his turn and says, "I am that good."  He wasn't actually _sure_ until the first kiss, but he sees no need to mention that; anyone who doesn't buy the flake act gets the evil genius act instead.  “And you don’t need to pretend you think it’s a joke.”  
  
"Uh.  OK," Sam says slowly.  He eyes Misha's sweater dubiously (which he cannot be blamed for in the least; it's an extremely dubious garment). "So...what are you doing with us?"  
  
"For one thing, it's more in character for me to ride to work with Jensen than it is for you," Misha says.  "For another, there's something you need to see before you get your saint's bone."  Dean produces the script like a magician pulling doves from his sleeves; it's already open to the relevant page.  Sam takes the pages and skims them quickly.  Misha can see the moment when he hits the failed spell.

“Crap,” Sam says.

Misha nods at him to continue and he does.  When he gets to Misha’s murder he draws a sharp breath and glances over.  “Yeah,” Misha says.  “You can see why I’m not big on the idea of any of us going to the set today.”

Sam looks at Dean, who is not covering his pout as well as he thinks he is, and says, “I can see why you don’t want to go, but the two of us probably should.  Assuming this script is what’s actually supposed to happen, we can’t change things too much; it might change how Virgil reacts.”

“Sam,” Misha sighs.  “I can’t let you quit Jared’s job for him, OK?”

“So I won’t,” Sam says.  “This looks like it’s mostly because I’m pissed off and scared of being stuck here.  If we know there’s a way back, we can take it.”

“We _don’t_ know there’s going to be a way back,” Dean says tightly. This is where the argument he and Misha have been having all morning keeps running aground.   “We’re not letting some dick angel slit Misha’s throat, but if Virgil doesn’t make his call who knows what Raphael will do?”

“I dunno, Dean,” Sam says thoughtfully.  Misha's fascinated, watching the wheels turn over in the younger Winchester's head.  “According to this, Virgil isn't even here yet.  That gives us some maneuvering room.  His timeline won't change until we interact with it.”

“Yeah, but what good does that do us?” Dean asks.  “If we don't let him kill Misha, he'll pick someone else unless we stop him, and stopping him means we're all stuck here.”

“Wait a second, wait just a second.”  Misha sits forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, and buries his hands in his hair.  There's an idea at the edges of his mind, and if he can just grab it...  “What if _we_ make a call?” he asks, sitting up again.  The other two stare at him.

After a second, Dean says, “What, you'll be happier if _I_ cut your throat instead?”

Misha shakes his head.  “No, of course not.  The spell needs blood, a fair amount of blood—but only about as much as you give when you donate.  If it's just the amount, there are ways to get it that aren't lethal.  But think about where it comes from. Demons wouldn't have any problem with killing people, and Virgil—he'd kill me just because.”

“Because?” Dean says.  Sam and Misha give him identical looks of disbelief.

“Because I look like Castiel,” Misha explains.  It's kind of cute how disgusted Dean gets at that.  “Probably why he picks me.  But the fact that they _do_ kill people doesn't mean they _have_ to.  We might be able to cast the spell without killing anyone.”

“We don't know the words,” Sam protests.

Misha grins.  “We can, though.  I'll have to dig up the episode, or no—we can check the transcript in the wiki.”

Sam visibly decides to let that go, and says, “OK, stipulating that we can, what good would it do?”

“We can coordinate with people on your side.  So even if we stop Virgil, someone else can pull you back.”  Misha is willing to admit to himself that he'll be sad to see them go, but not _nearly_ sad enough to leave Jared and Jensen trapped in monster-land.

* * *

By the time they get to the airport, they have a plan.  It’s a necessarily sketchy plan, with a lot of contingencies and what-ifs, but it’s a plan.

Sam gets the package, opens it, and makes a big show of being confused and worried for Clif’s benefit.  Misha insisted that Sam at least _try_ to return the damn thing, because even for a household with two successful actors in it, the bone cost a non-trivial amount of money.  Jared’s probably going to be out the costs of shipping, but that’s survivable.  Sam gets on the phone to the credit card company as they head for the studio.

Dean almost rebels at the prospect of having makeup put on but Sam and Misha manage to quell him.  Misha, meanwhile, doesn’t technically need makeup quite this early but decides to get his done in order to show solidarity.  Once he’s painted up and the stylist has done her quick scrunch of his hair—he’s kind of amused how little effort they put into Castiel’s fought-with-a-windstorm look these days—he goes in search of supplies.

The bowl is easy; there are three of them in the props lockup, and the kid on the desk buys the story about needing one for a prank with no hint of protest.  Misha promises to say he swiped it if caught, and that’s the end of that.

Bactine and gauze and surgical tape require raiding a first aid kit; fortunately, there are several stashed around.  None of them are elaborate enough to contain a large-gauge needle, though, and Misha runs out of time before he can think of another place to find one.  He stashes the stuff he’s collected in his trailer and pulls on Castiel’s suit with a feeling like he’s putting his skin back on right.  Before he slips his phone into the trenchcoat pocket he tweets “Joke yesterday?  Less of a joke than I thought.  Worried about J2 but Dean’s a good kisser.”  He grins.  That should drive the fangirls nuts.

They get through his scene with Sam and Dean enough better than the script that Misha at least isn’t fearing for Jensen’s job.  He makes comments about “Jared” being worried about the huge purchase on his card, and Dean has enough of a grasp on pretending to be what he’s not that he remembers to fake pre-migraine symptoms periodically.  It’s not perfect, but everyone has off-days, and eventually they even get Sam to stop doing the weird stuff with his arms.

Misha, meanwhile, is finding it very easy to stay in character.  In part that’s because he doesn’t have Jared standing out of the shot making silly faces at him, but he suspects it also has something to do with the other people on set with him.

Finally they get the scene over with.  Bob Singer is grumbling about the quality of the footage, but he almost always does, and really there’s at least one good reading of every line; it can all be edited together later.  There’s a break called while the next set gets prepped.

Misha and the Winchesters decamp to Misha’s trailer. It takes a minute to find the incantation, because Misha wastes some time clicking episode transcripts before it occurs to him to just check the “Goblet of Blood” page.

“OK,” he says, once the Latin is written out on a piece of paper.  “We have to decide who’s doing this, and how to get enough blood out of me.”

“Why you?” Dean says, sounding touchingly alarmed.

“We know my blood works,” Misha says, shrugging.  “We’re already changing the parameters a little by not killing me; we should stick as close as we can otherwise.  Also, I’m here to consent to this, and Jared and Jensen aren’t.  I couldn’t find a needle, though, so it’s going to have to be a cut.”

Dean and Sam both look very unhappy, but bow to the inevitable.  They disassemble and disinfect one of Misha’s disposable razors and swab Bactine on his inner arm, just above the elbow.  Sam holds his arm still.  Dean makes the cut, careful, but deep and right over the vein.  (His hands are rock-steady as he does it, but Misha doesn’t like the lack of expression on his face.)  It hurts like a son of a _bitch_ and Misha’s glad of Sam’s grip because without it he’d have flinched and caused a whole lot of damage.

It takes five minutes or so to get a decent amount of blood into the cup.  Sam bandages the cut while Dean takes the cup and says the Latin over it—they decided that “profound bond” probably trumps “I play you on TV”.

“Cas, can you hear me?” Dean says.  “Castiel, please tell me you can hear this.”

Misha’s accepted that there’s Weirdness going on in his life these last twenty-four hours or so, he really has, but he’s still stunned to the point of gaping when _his own voice_ emerges from the goblet.  His own voice in character, yes, but it’s _exactly_ the way he would say it when Castiel says, “Dean?  How are you contacting me?”  Castiel sounds faint and far away, like someone on the other side of a large room.

“Goblet of blood,” Dean says around a relieved smile.  “Nothing else works here.  We can’t get back on our own.  But Virgil’s going to be coming through, and we think we have a way to deal with him.”

There’s a pause long enough that Dean says, “Cas?” before Castiel replies, “How do you know?”  Misha thinks of that tone as “You never cease to amaze me and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”  Castiel uses it a lot with Dean.

“There’s a…let’s just say we got our hands on some prophecy,” Dean says.  “Virgil’s going to come here after us, but he’ll be powerless.  Raphael is going to try to pull him back sometime tomorrow afternoon, but get us instead.  Also, Cas, you’re a jerk and you should have told us about the key.”

 “This method of communication can be overheard,” Castiel says darkly.

“Fine, OK, but we’re gonna have words when I get back, got it?”

“Yes, Dean,” says Castiel, and Misha takes mental notes on how to fit that much resignation into two words.  “I don’t have much time,” Castiel continues.  “What do you need?”

“We’re planning to try and fake Virgil out,” Dean says.  “If he doesn’t manage to get Raphael to pull us back, we’ll need you to get us, OK?  We’ll go to the place where we came through every night at nine till you can get us.  But if we show up with Virgil we’ll play along.”

“Yes,” Castiel says.  “I must go.”  Misha waves frantically at Dean and hisses, “Ask him about Jensen and Jared!”

“Our friend here wants to know if fake me and Sam are OK,” Dean says.

“I haven’t seen them,” Castiel says.  “Balthazar assures me he took them to safety.  Goodbye, Dean.”

“Wait a second, Cas,” Dean says, but there's no reply.  “Damn it.”

Misha's arm aches like crazy and he's worried sick about Jensen, but he still has to grin.  Because that, right there?  That is the new top of his list of coolest things that have ever happened to him.  “He's _real_ ,” he says.  Sam and Dean turn to look at him, interrupting a brotherly conversation that seemed to be happening mostly in their facial expressions.  “That was really Castiel, that was really him.”  He knows he's babbling a bit and doesn't care.  “You guys are awesome, don't get me wrong, but Castiel—I dream his dreams sometimes, but it always could have been just my imagination, you know?  But that, that was _him_.”

Dean looks bemused; Sam seems to understand.

They have a little while yet before they have to be back on camera (Dean grumbles at the prospect of more acting and mimes shooting himself in the temple), so Dean and Sam go to watch the set they assume Virgil’s going to show up on.  Misha drinks a bottle of water to replace his lost fluid and washes out the goblet in his trailer’s little sink, noting with queasy fascination that the blood is already clotting like mad.

He hikes across to props and returns the bowl, spinning a little story for the kid about how well his prank went.  It’s not hard to sound enthusiastic.  Halfway back to his trailer he catches sight of Sam, rounding a corner out of easy hailing range, so he picks up his pace a little.  A second later Dean comes around the same corner.  He looks concerned, which is all Misha has time to register before an arm wraps around his chest and yanks him sideways down a narrow alley between the side of a soundstage and a pile of crates.  He hears Dean shout in alarm, but much closer is the voice that growls in his ear, “Are you Castiel?”

Misha would shake his head, except he can feel something sharp against his neck.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s not nearly as hard as Misha’s pride would like to make his voice go tight and high in fear—in fact it’s more like “letting” than “making”. He squeaks, “What? No! I’m, I’m Misha Collins, I’m, oh God don’t hurt me!” He doesn’t actually cry, but he’s not ruling it out as a future possibility.

There’s a very brief pause as his captor—he’s going out on a limb and deciding it’s Virgil—thinks this over, and then Dean bursts around the corner. “Jen, no!” Misha exclaims, just enough presence of mind to wink fractionally. He’s not sure it’ll be useful for Virgil to think he has no idea about Sam and Dean, but confusion to the enemy. “Call secur—”

He cuts off, or rather Virgil cuts him off by digging the knife in ever-so-slightly. “Give me the key or this man dies,” Virgil says, and Misha lets himself whine.

“Not happening,” Dean says, commendably offhand, though Misha can see the tension in the way his eyes flick back and forth, looking for an opening. “Anyway, don’t have it on me, so you’re outta luck.”

Clueless-actor-Misha doesn’t understand, so he says, “Jen, what are you oh _God_ ,” as Virgil shakes him and snarls “Don’t speak.” Dean takes a step forward and Virgil says evenly “Stay back.” Dean subsides, holding up his hands.

“OK, fine, just let the guy go. Guess you’ve noticed by now you don’t have your mojo, so let’s talk about getting all our asses out of Bizarro-world, huh? Let him go and we can talk.” Misha can feel a trickle of wet on his neck. It’s nauseatingly terrifying. For some reason he’s worried about staining his costume shirt.

“This isn’t Castiel,” Virgil says. “Why should you care?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I can tell,” he says. “Cas’d be kicking your ass by now. I _care_ because saving people is my job. Let him go, come on. We’ll talk.” Misha feels the muscles of Virgil’s arms tense, and he’s opening his mouth to warn Dean when there’s a sharp click from behind him—a click that sounds an awful lot like the hammer of a gun being pulled back.

“I don’t want to kill the poor jerk you took over,” says Sam, cold and flat. “So let Misha go.”  There’s a long moment when no one moves, and then the knife eases away from Misha’s throat and he can’t stop a sigh of relief that’s almost a sob.

“Misha, get over here,” Dean says tightly. Misha’s taken one step in Dean’s direction when suddenly Virgil shoves him hard in the back and he goes stumbling into Dean’s unprepared arms. They’re too busy getting untangled to pay attention to what’s going on for a few seconds; by the time Misha looks next, Sam is down, half-stunned against the wall of the soundstage, and Virgil is most of the way to the end of the building, running flat-out. He turns the corner as they all watch, and vanishes.

“Sam, damn it, why didn’t you shoot him?” Dean snaps. Sam shakes his head hard, sits up and retrieves the fallen gun (the Colt, Misha notes absently). “Would’ve if I could,” Sam says; he puts the gun to his own temple and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. “It’s a prop, Dean,” Sam says patiently. “The barrel’s solid.” Dean shuts his mouth with an audible click.

“Oh boy,” Misha says weakly, and reaches out one hand to steady himself against the stack of crates. His vision is going weird and swimmy and kind of gray around the edges, and his legs feel funny. The world rushes up around him and from a long way away he hears Dean say, “Whoa!” Misha hits his knees before Dean's dive gets to him, and then he's leaning onto a solid, warm chest. He lets his forehead fall onto Dean's shoulder.

He loses track of time for a while, but when he musters the energy to pick his head up again there's no impatience in Dean's face. “You good now?” Dean asks. His hands are hovering as if ready to make another grab if necessary.

“Yeah,” Misha says, and sits back on his heels. He rubs his hands over his face and says, “Sorry. Must've been the blood loss.”

“It's OK,” Dean says. “So now what?”

“Virgil lifted the key,” Sam says from where he's leaning against the soundstage wall. “We know it's not catastrophic, but it does mean he's going to go try to find someone to...” He glances at Misha and seems to reconsider his wording. “He's going to be looking to make his call. We can't guarantee he's not going to come after Misha again, and even if he doesn't, the guy he's wearing shouldn't get pinned with a murder rap for this.”

“Let's call the cops,” Misha says. “They can look for him better than we can.” He pushes himself to his feet carefully, but the shock seems to have passed. He manages a smile and asks, “How heroic do you guys want to be?”

* * *

They spend the next several hours talking to police officers. It's boring, and Misha finds it distressingly easy to act pitiful. Dean sits next to him the entire time, though Misha manages to resist the impulse to hold his hand. Everyone makes a gratifying fuss over the cut in his neck. (It's short, and not deep, but expertly placed; if Virgil had felt like slicing Misha would have bled out in seconds. He tries not to shudder about that.) Sam, as the one who got the best look at Virgil, spends some time with a sketch artist.

Their version of events is heavily edited but essentially correct; Misha says the guy grabbed him, demanded to know if he was Castiel (“That's the name of the character I play, Constable.”), and held him at knife-point. Then Jensen found them and started trying to talk the guy down. Jared sneaked up behind them and startled the knife-man into letting Misha go, but he managed to run away before they could catch him. Then they were delayed in calling the cops because Misha spent a few minutes freaking out. (“It's cool. You waited till it was over,” Dean mutters when they have a second alone and Misha tries to apologize about that.)

Everyone gets Saturday off. They finally climb into the car. Misha has just enough coherence to tell Clif to head for his place before he drifts off. He really, really needs his own space right now, and he's pretty sure there's no way for Virgil to get his home address.  The next thing he knows, Dean is poking him awake. “Come on, Misha, you're home,” he says, and Misha sits up and tries to blink his eyes open. It's barely even dark and he feels like he could sleep for a week.

He's most of the way out of the car before he realizes Dean isn't following. He turns and looks to discover Dean and Sam are having another of those conversations that's almost all in the eyebrows. Finally Sam shrugs and flicks his eyes at the open door, and Dean says, “OK, if you're sure.” Sam just looks at his brother sideways. “Call me in the morning, we'll make plans,” he says. “Yeah,” Dean says, and climbs out.

Misha fumbles with his keys but gets the door open eventually, managing the steps to the main floor on momentum alone. He drops his keys on the table at the top of the stairs and practically falls onto his favorite chair, which is large enough that Jensen jokes its mother must have been a loveseat.  He's sprawled out, eyes closed, when he feels Dean's weight settle next to him. “C'mon, dude,” Dean says. “You don't wanna fall asleep here, not this early. You'll totally screw your sleep schedule.”

“I feel like someone beat me all over,” Misha says, eyes still closed.

“Adrenaline letdown sucks,” Dean agrees. “Sam gets sick. I get the shakes, usually.”

Misha cracks one eye at that, because it sounded like Dean Winchester just admitted to weakness. Dean smiles wryly and says, “What?” Misha shakes his head and lets his eye fall closed again.

Dean grabs his knee and shakes it. “Don't sleep, you'll regret it.”

“Screw off,” Misha says, petulant.

“Who knows more about what to do after a fight?” Dean asks, which is a fair point even if Misha doesn't want to admit it. “Come on. Sit up.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Misha does.  “I'm such a wimp,” he complains. “All I did was stand there and be a damsel in distress.” He toes off his shoes so he can draw his feet up onto the chair.

“You did great,” Dean says. “You convinced him you weren't Cas and you kept him paying attention to you so Sam could get the drop on him.”

“With a prop gun,” Misha says, which strikes him as funny. “When I saw it was the Colt...it just seemed perfectly reasonable that he'd have it, you know? I didn't even question how it got here.”

Dean produces a pained smile. “About gave me a freakin' heart attack, pointing it at himself,” he says. “First rule of guns, you never point them at anything you don't mean to kill. Especially not the Colt.” Misha nods and wraps his arms around his knees. After a few seconds, Dean says, “We should eat.”

* * *

They order out again, pizza this time. Misha pulls out a few beers; Dean makes faces at the microbrew labels, but drinks willingly enough.

When they're done eating Misha excuses himself to the bathroom, and when he gets back Dean is standing next to the TV cabinet, holding a DVD box set open in his hands and studying it. “What season's that?” Misha asks carefully.

“Fourth,” Dean says. “I thought...Sam did a lot of things that year.” He taps a disc with his finger. “This one has Lucifer Rising. That mean what I think it means?”

“Yes,” Misha says, and then quotes softly, “I'll hold him off. I'll hold them all off.”

“The first time Cas did something incredibly stupid for me,” Dean says. He doesn't sound pissed so much as sad.

“Second,” Misha says. Dean gives him a sharp look. “First thing was trying to tell you about the plan beforehand. The time you met Jimmy.”

“Jimmy. That poor bastard.” Dean studies the discs for a moment longer and then closes the box up and slides it back into its cover. It fits neatly into its spot on the shelf. “Probably better I don't,” Dean says, and Misha nods in agreement. Dean stands there for a while, staring at the boxes of DVDs like they hold the answer to a puzzle he has to unravel.

Misha is just about to offer to make popcorn or something when Dean turns to him and says, “Sam thinks we're gonna have sex.” He looks a little amused, a little sheepish. After a second, Misha asks, “Does he know we already did?”

Dean shrugs expansively. “I don't think he'd be blown away if I told him.”

“So, Sam knows you sleep with guys,” Misha says. He's going to have to tell Jared about this.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “He walked in on me with a guy once, couple of months before he went to Stanford. Once he got over the screaming I swear he was all set to go get himself a rainbow tattoo or something, it was sad. Tried to get me to pick a number on the what's-it-called, the Kinsey scale.” He shrugs again. “I like guys. I like chicks more. It's not like it's a big deal.”

“You always get weird when someone talks about you and Sam,” Misha says, and Dean makes a face. “Sam's my brother, dude. Be just as bad if he was a girl.”

“So...are we gonna have sex?” Misha asks, smiling a little. Dean blinks and then smiles back. “Kind of up to you,” he says. “You're the one with a boyfriend.”

“You know those lists, with people you're allowed to sleep with if you ever get a chance?” Misha says, and Dean nods. “Number one name on mine is Dean Winchester. Jensen thought I was being silly, filling a slot with a fictional character.” He waves up and down Dean's body. “Guess I win.” Dean grins at that, but he sobers quickly when Misha continues, “Plus, I could've died. I was _supposed_ to die. If this worked like Chuck's books? I'd be dead by now.” He starts out strong, but by the end he's gone up half an octave and he's leaning on the back of the couch. “Oh shit,” he gasps. “Oh, fuck, Dean, he was going to kill me.” It hits him as sharp as if the knowledge is new, that he could easily be cold and still on a slab right now, and he can't breathe right.

Dean's hands are on his upper arms suddenly, holding him steady. “He didn't,” Dean says, perfectly calm. “And he won't. We won't let him, Misha. I won't let him. I promise.” His eyes catch Misha's and don't let go. The steady gaze gives Misha an anchor and he pulls himself back together over the space of a few breaths. Finally he nods, expecting Dean to step back.

He doesn't. Instead he leans in, giving Misha plenty of time to dodge, and fits their mouths together carefully, running his tongue over the seam of Misha's lips. Misha lets his eyes close and opens to the kiss, which quickly goes from calm and comforting to hungry and deep. By the time Dean backs off enough to speak, they're both beginning to breathe hard.

“Bedroom,” Dean says, the word ghosting over Misha's lips. “I'm not having glad-you're-not-dead sex on the couch.”


	8. Chapter 8

They're both still mostly clothed when they hit the bedroom door, though Misha's sweater is somewhere on the living room floor and he's not sure what happened to Dean's flannel shirt.

He doesn't care, either, because less fabric means more chances for his skin to touch Dean's. He untucks the hem of Dean's t-shirt and rucks it up so he can run his fingers over Dean's stomach and along his ribs. Dean has one hand in Misha's hair and the other on his arm, and they're kissing like their lives depend on it. It makes it hard to walk, but they manage until the backs of Misha's legs hit the mattress and he loses his balance, tipping over backwards; he grabs for Dean's shirt and gets just enough of a grip to pull Dean down with him.

By great good fortune none of Dean's weight lands on Misha's bandaged arm, so instead it's funny. Misha pulls Dean back into a kiss, laughing softly even as their lips meet, and he can feel Dean smiling. They lie there for long minutes, kissing, and Misha can feel the knot of fear in his chest loosening slowly. Dean has one arm pillowed under his head and his free hand running up and down Misha's arm, carefully skirting the bandage. The kiss gets gradually deeper and Misha's breath is starting to come out more like moans when Dean slides his fingers down between them to the button of Misha's pants and pops it deftly. There are a few seconds of awkward squirming which end with his pants and briefs both pushed down his thighs and Dean's hand wrapped firmly around his dick, and Misha whines into Dean's mouth unabashed. “Dean,” he murmurs, as coherent as he can manage with Dean stroking smoothly up and down, maddeningly slow.

He's flat on his back now with one hand twisted in Dean's t-shirt, Dean leaning over him. He buries his face in the side of Dean's neck, panting; maybe a handjob shouldn't be this good but he damn well doesn't care. He tries to focus on the sound of Dean's voice, low and soothing, but the words don't help ground him, if he even wants to be grounded; “Let me do this for you,” Dean is saying, “Just feel it, you don't need to think about anything else.” Dean runs the nail of his thumb lightly up the underside of Misha's dick; he shudders, whimpers, mouthing _please, please_ into Dean's skin.

“There you go,” Dean says, as if he can feel the coil of heat that's settled at the base of Misha's spine. “There it is.” Misha's free hand is groping for purchase and Dean pins it to the mattress, firm, something solid amid the swirling of his pleasure. “Dean,” he says helplessly. “Dean, please.” But Dean has no mercy, and his hand never changes its pace.

It can't be hours, but that's what it feels like. Misha is aware that he's begging and somehow that makes it better, makes the friction burn a little sweeter. Finally Dean leans in to kiss him and it's like the touch of their lips completes a circuit; the tension in his body goes an impossible notch tighter. “Oh,” Misha says, and Dean laughs softly.

“I want to see you come,” Dean says, almost gentle. The coil snaps, and fire rushes through Misha's body, burning out everything as it goes. He knows he's speaking, even shouting, but the words aren't important; what matters is that he's _here_ to feel this.

After a while his breathing settles down and he pries his eyes open. “Now aren't you glad you didn't go to sleep?” Dean says, smirking.

“You are such a smartass,” Misha says without heat.

“All my life,” Dean agrees.

Misha narrows his eyes and props himself up on his elbows. “Right,” he says. “I am gonna make you forget your own name.”

* * *

They don't end up getting much sleep.

* * *

The sky is thinking about dawn when Misha realizes that he can't tell Dean about it with Sam there. Much as he'd like the younger Winchester's calming influence, he's pretty sure Dean will deal better if he doesn't have to feel the urge to protect Castiel from Sam's judgement—the fact that Castiel won't even be _present_ will certainly not help.

They've been having a rambling conversation about movies; at first, Dean keeps talking, but eventually he asks a question, and, when Misha doesn't answer, says, “OK, what?”

Misha thinks that he's very glad they're currently dressed (sort of, if sweatpants and thermal undershirts count as dressed) and says, “There's something I think you need to know, but I _also_ think it's going to make you mad.”

Dean's comfortable sprawl over the pillows at the head of the bed goes tense and wary. “That's always a good start,” he says slowly, and pushes himself up to a sitting position.

Misha, already cross-legged, turns to face Dean a little better. “I can't claim I know how this works,” he begins. “I've always been one of those actors who gets really annoyingly into their characters. I did a movie about a serial killer—well, it's not important. So the first time I remembered something that Castiel did that hadn't been in the show, I just figured it was my imagination going overboard again.” He'd woken panting, exhilarated because they'd saved the seal and mourning for the brother who'd fallen ensuring it. “It kept happening. I'd dream about conversations that were in the script, only they'd go on for a couple of lines after the cut. But whatever, it was no big deal. Then one day I was in my trailer, and I started remembering a warehouse, or a factory or something. I was drawing sigils all over the walls, trying to make the place secure before the rest of them could track me. But of course they'd noticed I was acting odd—I was always a good soldier; it was easy to see something was wrong. They sent Muriel to observe me, because she was talented at hiding herself. As soon as she saw what I was doing she went back to Zachariah. He didn't lead the squad himself, but there were four of them and I didn't fight as hard as I could have—I didn't want to hurt them. We still nearly destroyed the building. I was so worried about Jimmy.” 

Dean looks spooked and Misha takes a moment to force his voice out of Castiel's register. “Sorry. Anyway. A week later, I got the script for 'The Rapture'. Which was the one where Castiel got taken back to Bible Camp.” He remembers that vividly, flipping through the script with a sense of whirling vertigo, reading lines he somehow already knew. “After that...well, it should've scared me, but I didn't—I didn't really _think_ about it much. It was too strange, and it seemed, I don't know, harmless. Though the dreams I had when we were shooting 'The End', those were pretty nuts. The Croats, Dean, they tore me, _him_ apart. I called Jensen at three in the morning, freaking the hell out. We were just friends then, and he was running himself ragged filming two parts at once, and he still came over and got me plastered.”

“OK,” Dean says. “I don't get why you're telling me this.” He sounds worried, and more than a little confused.

“This is just background,” Misha says. He clasps his hands and leans forward on his knees. “So this is how it is with Castiel. I don't know how or why or anything, I just know it happens.” He pauses, and Dean nods. Misha fidgets for a second before he works out how to go on.

“After Castiel left you, after Stull, he went to Heaven. It was all right for a little while, but then Raphael sent him a summons out of nowhere. He thought Raphael was just going to...I don't know, I guess it's disrespectful to think of an archangel sulking, but that's what it seemed like to me.” He flashes a smile at Dean, who doesn't return it but at least his posture eases a bit. “Raphael told him he had to swear obedience again or be destroyed, and made it clear that item number one on the agenda was finding a way to let Michael and Lucifer out of the cage so that the world could end properly. He gave him a day to think it over. So he went to talk to you.” 

“Cas never came to see me,” Dean protests. “Not that whole year I was at Lisa's.” He probably doesn't realize how hurt he sounds when he says it.

“You were raking leaves,” Misha says. He remembers standing there, watching Dean. “He stood there for fifteen or twenty minutes. He didn't want to let you see him until he was sure—”

“Wait a second, you're saying Cas can be _invisible_?” Dean demands.

“Yeah,” Misha says simply. Dean looks creeped out, for which Misha can't blame him. “He was trying to decide if he could ask you to help—if anything you could do would be worth what breaking your promise to Sam would do to you. He didn't know how you _could_ help. I mean, no offense here, but an archangel's kind of out of your weight class, you know?”

“Hey, we fought the Devil and won,” Dean says, sharp and annoyed.

“Under very special circumstances, with help from another archangel and Death himself,” Misha says dryly. Dean opens his mouth, closes it again, and nods reluctantly. “So Castiel was standing there being conflicted,” Misha goes on, “when Crowley showed up.”

Dean looks extremely skeptical. “Pretty sure I would've noticed a smiting right there in Lisa's backyard.”

“There wasn't any smiting,” Misha says, and draws a deep breath. “Crowley wanted to offer Castiel a deal.”

As soon as the word is out of his mouth he regrets it, because Dean's expression twists into sick fury. “Cas sold his soul?” Dean asks, quiet and flat. Misha can see the wheels starting to turn in his head, the ones that will _get Cas out of this if it's the last thing I do_.

“Not that kind of deal,” Misha says, and Dean's shoulders slump fractionally in relief. It doesn't last. “Crowley lent him enough power to spit in Raphael's eye, and that's what started the civil war. And...he's been working with Crowley ever since.”

Dean says nothing for a dangerously long time. Finally Misha continues, “I know you don't want to believe me, Dean.”

“You're right, I don't,” Dean says. “It doesn't matter now, though.”

Misha winces, and of course Dean catches it. “Son of a bitch,” he says bitterly. “You're gonna tell me that douchebag's alive, aren't you?” Misha nods, and Dean leans back enough to rap his head sharply against the wall. “How? Cas burned him right in front of us.”

“They weren't Crowley's bones,” Misha says.

“Come on. Crowley's good but he's not good enough—”

Forcing the words out, Misha says, “Dean, Castiel _knew_ they weren't Crowley's bones.” Again the silence stretches. “Mark and I—Mark plays Crowley—right before the scene, they took us aside and swore us to secrecy. We had to know so we could play it right. I don't know about Mark, but they didn't have to tell me.” Dean is staring at him, his face a perfect blank. Misha has a feeling that isn't a good sign. “He needed to keep Crowley away from you, and...he wanted to...I don't know how to explain it.”

“Try,” Dean says, toneless.

Misha thinks it over for a second, Dean's eyes heavy on him. “He wanted to be a hero for you, Dean. He wanted to give you the satisfaction of seeing Crowley go up in smoke. It wasn't a setup—Castiel didn't know what you were planning until Sam called him and you were never meant to find that lab. But he knew he could count on Crowley to catch on, play along. He—”

The next time the world is still, Misha's staring at the ceiling with Dean's face hovering over him like a shadow eclipsing the sun. “You son of a bitch,” Dean says, low. “You think I'm gonna let you lie about Cas like this, you've got another fucking think coming.” He's got Misha pinned by the biceps, and intentionally or not he's putting enough weight on the bad arm that it hurts. 

“Dean,” Misha starts, and Dean shakes him hard.

“Shut the hell up,” Dean snarls.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Misha says.

“Then why are you telling me?” Dean yells. His grip is tightening, enough to hurt the uninjured arm too; Misha doesn’t try to hide the pain, but he doesn’t struggle either. “You need to know,” he says. “It’s important. You need to know so you can try to stop it. You and Sam and Bobby, between you you might be able to think of something. You might be able to save him.”

“Save him,” Dean repeats.

Misha stares into Dean’s eyes, willing him to understand. “Something bad’s going to happen to Castiel at the end of this season,” he says. “Call it another two months, maybe three. I don’t know what it’s going to be, but it almost has to have something to do with Purgatory.” Dean suddenly lets go and sits back, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Crowley was looking for Purgatory,” he says.

“I can’t…I don’t understand it myself, but there’s something about the souls in Purgatory. Castiel can use them, somehow. But it’s dangerous.” Misha sits back up cautiously. Dean’s whole posture is angry and bewildered, but Misha doesn’t think he’s going to snap again; this looks a lot more like Dean giving up. “Don’t be…try not to be angry with him,” Misha says softly. “He was trying to shield you.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Throwing himself on the grenade. Stupid son of a bitch.” He shifts to the edge of the bed, moving like an old man.

“Dean,” Misha says.

“Just—don’t. I’ll be back, OK?” Dean says, and stands up. Misha watches him leave the bedroom, and a few seconds later the bathroom door closes.

Misha closes his eyes and sighs. “That went well,” he says to no one in particular.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean stays in the bathroom for quite a while, long enough that the sky is getting seriously light by the time he comes back out.  He stands in the bedroom door like he's waiting for the firing squad and says, “OK, let's say I believe this.”

“Define 'this',” Misha says, making sure his voice stays calm.

Dean makes a disgusted face, but Misha's tired of being the only person in these conversations who actually _says_ what he means, so he doesn't let Dean off the hook.  “That...that Cas is working with Crowley and something bad's going to happen to him,” Dean says; he stops there, but Misha's pretty sure he can read the rest of that sentence in Dean's face.

“OK,” Misha agrees.  “Let's say you believe that.”  He's leaning against the wall at the head of the bed and he waves one hand at the expanse of free mattress.  “Come on, sit down.”  After a second, Dean does, crossing the floor slowly and sitting perched on the edge uncomfortably.  His shoulders are hunched and he's looking straight ahead.

“What am I supposed to do?” he says at last, like the words are being physically dragged out of him.  “Cas doesn't trust me anymore, man.  Hiding something this big is proof of that.”

Misha tries not to sigh.  Dean's a black-and-white kind of guy, and this whole deal is in shades of gray.  “Look,” he says.  “I could give you a big speech here, but I'm not going to.  Castiel got into this for reasons he thought were good, and it might turn out that he's right—that it's the only way to deal with Raphael.  But maybe with some help he can come up with another way.  That's all.”

“If I tell him I know,” Dean says, “what's he gonna do?”

“I'm honestly not certain,” Misha says, and Dean's face crumples in on itself a little more.  “I think it depends a lot on how you tell him.  Yelling at him won't go well, I can tell you that much.  It'll just make him dig in his heels.  He's a stubborn bastard.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, almost managing a smile.  “Me too.”

Misha lets the silence sit between them for a little while before he says, “None of it was because he doesn't trust you, Dean.”

“That’s crap,” Dean says, but his heart isn’t in it.

Misha says, “Either you believe I know what I’m talking about or you don’t.”

“OK,” Dean says after a pause.  “So what do I do?”

Misha shrugs.  “You tell him you know about Crowley.  You get him to fill you and Bobby and Sam in, because I guarantee you there are details I don’t have, or don’t understand.  And once that show’s on the road, you get him somewhere alone and you kiss him.  Once he gets over being surprised…well, you might have to talk him through it after all, but I think you can manage.”

Dean turns his head for the first time during this conversation, eyebrows up in mild surprise.  “Seriously?  You think me and Cas getting together is as important as whatever your bad thing is?”

Misha makes a vague _What’re you gonna do?_ gesture and says, “If it’s really bad?  You’re the one who promised him he wouldn’t die a virgin.”  It’s out of his mouth before he thinks about it—not something that happens to him often, and his less-than-tactful stream of consciousness is the big reason he trained himself out of talking without thinking—and Dean goes rigid.

Misha is trying desperately to come up with an apology more detailed than _Oh my God I’m such a jerk_ when Dean gasps in a breath and starts laughing helplessly.  Misha watches for a few seconds and then says, “I think we should have breakfast.”  Dean nods, still laughing.

* * *

It’s a decent hour of the morning by the time they’re done eating, so Dean calls Sam.  From the half of the conversation Misha can hear, Sam is still in bed and not willing to be teased about it.  They agree to meet up and go stake out the set before Dean goes a step too far (“If I can get up so can you, Sammy.  He’s got this thing he does with his—”) and Sam hangs up on him.

It's about then that Misha discovers Dean intends him to stay away from the set.  At first he's mostly amused, but then he realizes he's a little pissed about it.

“I'm sorry,” he says, after the third go-round of Dean telling him he has to stay home, “did you think this was negotiable?  I am going to be there when Jared and Jensen get back, and that's final.”  Especially Jensen.  Who the hell knows what's been happening to him?  It's unlikely he'll be physically hurt, but Misha wants to see him as soon as possible, because a day and a half of the wrong body language is starting to get to him—it's just so obvious every damn time Dean moves that this is _not Jensen._

“Come on,” Dean says, sounding like he's holding on to irritation with both hands.  His easy lean against the counter has turned tense.  “We know Virgil will kill people to get to where he's going.  You don't want to be there when bullets start flying.”

“That's assuming the cops haven't found him,” Misha points out.  “And there'll be fewer people there than there were in the script; he probably won't have to shoot anyone.”

“Doesn't matter,” Dean says.  “You're the one who said he'd kill you just because, man.”

“So skip Virgil's bus,” Misha says.  “You talked to Castiel, he'll pull you back if you miss it.”  He hates to say it—it's only five or six extra hours, but that could be a very long time in the Winchesters' world.

Dean gives him a level look and says, “We have to get back as soon as we can.  You don't want to leave your guys there any more than me and Sam want to stick around here.  I mean, no offense, but this place...”

“Yeah, I know,” Misha says, and runs his hands through his hair.  “Look, I just can't sit here.  I'd rather duck Virgil than have to wait for the phone to ring, OK?”

Dean starts to snap and reins it in, but the words that come out aren't agreement.  “You're a civilian,” he says stubbornly.  “That means it's my job to keep you out of the line of fire.”

“I'm a civilian, not a child,” Misha says, his voice starting to go tight.  “I can choose to take this risk.”

“I’m not letting you, damn it.”

Misha lays his hands flat on the kitchen table and says evenly, “You don’t get to _let me_ , Dean.  I’m not your brother, and I am _not_ Castiel.  So you’ve got two choices: you can deal, or you can not.  But either way, I’m going.”

Dean stares at him.  Misha meets his eyes, knowing exactly what Dean’s seeing: Cas being stubborn.  “I’m not letting you,” Dean says again.  Apparently Misha’s more pissed than he thought, too, because his next words emerge completely without filter.  “One more time, you don’t _get_ to let me!  I have covered for you, helped you out, bled for you, hell I even got you off, and your insane overprotectiveness might be endearing on screen but _no_.”  He shoves back from the table and stalks around it, pushing into Dean’s space in a way that feels terribly familiar.  “You cannot push me around, and if you’re going to tell me I’m not smart enough to duck when necessary you can keep your opinions to yourself.”  He grits the last few words out around his teeth, which strikes him as odd because usually he’d shout, and then he takes in Dean’s expression and realizes what he did.

He takes a step back, closes his eyes, opens them again, and says, “And also you should show me some respect.  Wow, and I just got done saying I’m not Castiel.  I’m sorry.  But I’m still going.”

Dean sighs heavily.  “Yeah, no problem.  I’m used to it.”  In his pause, Misha hears a lot of things Dean will never allow himself to say out loud about Castiel, and the strains on a friendship, and Dean’s perpetual conviction that he’s not good enough.  “I just don’t want you to get killed because of our problems, OK?  This stuff isn’t even from your dimension or whatever.”

“In the script, Virgil doesn’t make it back with you guys,” Misha points out.  “He could be lurking around here for a long time.  I think it’s safe to say I’m involved, and I don’t think going to the set is going to make it worse.”

From the look on Dean’s face he doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t protest either.

* * *

It’s a little bit of backtracking to get to Jared’s place from the apartment, but since Misha’s the one who knows his way around he drives.  Dean is clearly not in any mood for talking, which Sam clearly picks up on right away.  Fortunately, however, Sam is willing to ignore it and engage in minor planning, which Dean studiously does not participate in.

It all boils down to “stake out the motel set Virgil came through on”.  Misha’s kind of charmed by how easy it is to make plans when you have prophecy to go on. (Though it makes him wonder if that means the current writing team is _collectively_ God?  A question to be pondered later, perhaps.  And scarier than the concept of God!Kripke, in its own way.)  They stop at a grocery store to fortify themselves with drinks and snacks and sandwiches, and proceed to the studio.   If the guard on the gate is surprised to see them—or, indeed, if he recognizes them at all—he hides it well; they stash Misha’s car near his trailer and set out to make camp.

Once they’re settled, with a good view of the set but not on any of the approaches to it, Misha pulls out his phone, to discover that his Twitter tag has absolutely exploded.  Apparently news of Virgil’s visit got out into the wild with some distortions, and there’s a sizeable contingent of amigos who have begun mourning in earnest.

 **@mishacollins:** I have always wanted to say this.   
 **@mishacollins:** The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.

It takes literally seconds for the replies to start coming in.  After the first few Misha mutes his phone and condenses the situation into tweets.  He wraps it up with “Sam scared him away with the Colt.  It was awesome.  Then we talked to cops a lot, not so awesome. :(”

The replies to his recap are interesting—everyone expresses suitable excitement and relief, but they’re about evenly divided between people wondering why he’s calling them Sam and Dean rather than Jared and Jensen, and people who simply accept the character names and move on.

He’s trying not to be drawn into a morass of congratulations on his still-breathing status when his attention is caught by Sam saying, “We’re not even brothers here, man,” and he glances up from his phone in time to catch Dean burying his reaction under, “All right, then.”

“Not like your life sucks here either,” Sam says, and does not look at Misha so deliberately that he might as well be staring.

Dean does look, then looks away when he realizes Misha is trying not to smile, and says, “What, and be an actor?  Not exactly my MO, Sam.”  Sam meets Misha’s eyes and they mutually shrug.  Dean catches the byplay but ignores it loftily.

Truth be told, Misha’s relieved; it hasn’t escaped him that Sam and Dean’s lives are difficult and dangerous, and he wouldn’t really blame either of them for wanting to trade up a little—and it doesn’t help that Dean especially doesn’t think of Jared or Jensen as _real_.  On the other hand, his friends are stuck in those difficult, dangerous Winchester lives, and for all his artificial familiarity with them, the hunters _aren’t_ actually his friends.  Given time they could be—and they will be, if they’re stuck here—but at the moment he just wants Jared and Jensen back.

Time drags.  They play poker, using M&Ms as chips—this is why Misha bought the biggest bag he could find.  Misha cleans them both out, having the unfair advantage of knowing how to read their faces when they still get surprised to see him look anything other than impassive.  When poker wanes—in part because Dean keeps eating the M&Ms—they turn to just talking.

It’s mid-afternoon when there’s a muffled, distant noise of a soundstage door banging open.  Dean and Sam both sit up straight, then get to their feet, and Misha follows, feeling his heartbeat start to pick up.

“Guess the cops didn’t get him,” Dean says quietly, looking unsurprised.  Misha wonders with a pang who Virgil hurt, killed, to get in touch with Raphael.  Giving his description to the police had been the right call, but Misha has an obscure feeling that he should have been more Castiel-like.

“OK,” Sam says.  “I’ll go for the key to make it look good.  We’ve got to make sure he goes back with us, though, no matter what.”  Dean nods.

For a second they all stand there, and then Misha says, “Fine, I’ll start.  Sam,” he says, and turns to him, offering a hand.  Sam takes it, looking a little surprised.  “It was good to meet you.  Make sure your brother doesn’t chicken out, OK?”

“Chicken out about what?” Sam asks, over Dean’s subdued sputter of protest.  Misha grins at him and says, “Castiel.”  Sam’s eyebrows go up, but then he grins back and says, “Got it.  Nice knowing you, man.”

Misha drops Sam’s hand and turns to Dean, trying to decide what to say.  And, coming up with nothing, he grabs Dean by the shoulders and pulls him in to kiss him, briefly but thoroughly.  Dean goes with it, which is gratifying, but he pulls back and says, “We don’t have time.  Remember you promised to stay over here.”  Misha nods.  He has no desire to end up in the Winchesters’ world, if for no other reason than he thinks poor Jimmy Novak’s body has had quite enough people in it already.

“No holy fire circles,” he says.  “Just talk to him, for once in your life, OK?”  Dean hesitates, nods, and then looks over at Sam.  Just like that, nothing but Virgil is important.

Dean and Sam move quietly away, fading quickly into the half-light of the soundstage.  For a minute nothing happens.  Misha can hardly hear over the pounding of his own heart and then, on the other side of the fake motel window, he catches the sounds of a fight, Sam barking _Hey_ and the sounds of fists on flesh.  “Dean, got it!” Sam yells, but Misha almost misses it because suddenly, in the middle of one of the candy-glass windowpanes, there’s a red glow that settles into a round sigil.

He can _feel_ it from where he stands, fifty feet away, pulling at him, and he takes an involuntary step back.  The pull is insistent, but weak.  Misha’s breath catches in his throat as the sigil suddenly flashes, and then bodies come hurtling through the window to land stunningly hard on their backs.  The sigil fades, and with it the pulling, and he breaks into a run to their sides, sinking to his knees to put his hands on what he desperately hopes are Jensen’s shoulders.

“Jen,” he says urgently, and the man shakes his head and opens his eyes.

“Misha,” he says.  “Oh, Mish, thank God.”  Misha helps Jensen sit up enough that they can get their arms around each other, and they stay that way for a long time


	10. Chapter 10

After a while he realizes Jensen's talking into his neck.  “I thought we were gonna get back and you'd be dead,” is the first whole sentence Misha processes.  “I didn't remember about the script until yesterday, God Misha, I thought you'd be _dead_.”

“I'm not,” he says soothingly.  “It's OK, I'm not.”  Somewhere off to the side Misha can hear Jared's voice, probably calling Genevieve, but he doesn't care about that right now.  He just needs to get them stable enough to walk so they can retreat to his trailer.  “I'm OK, I'm OK, Jen.”

They both manage to catch their breath at about the same time as Jared hangs up his phone and comes over to them.  “Come on, we shouldn’t stay in here,” Jared says, and offers his hands—both of them, to Misha and Jensen simultaneously.  Misha blinks at him, then at Jensen, who manages a shaky smile and says, “Jay and I…talked.”  Misha tries to judge if that means “beat the hell out of each other” as he takes Jared’s hand and climbs to his feet.

* * *

They spend the next hour in Misha’s trailer, getting everyone up to speed.  (Mostly.  Misha glosses over how he and Dean spent their evenings, it being none of Jared’s business.)  Jensen seems to be unwilling to get more than about a foot from Misha at any point, and by the time he’s got all the facts Jared is visibly restraining himself from heading for home and his wife—unsurprising, that. 

When Jared leaves, he and Jensen exchange a quick hug.  And they didn’t even snipe at each other while the talking was going on.  Misha’s silently impressed, especially given that they do seem to have just talked.  (It sounds like their adventures were about as hair-raising as his, though he’s going to have to get Jensen to go over things in more depth.  Regardless, that kind of thing is a bonding experience, and after all they used to be best friends.)

Once Jared’s gone, Misha pulls Jensen over to sit on the swaybacked couch.  They end up with Misha leaning against the arm, mostly in Jensen’s lap with his arm slung around Jensen’s neck.  It’s not going to be comfortable for long, but they’ll worry about that when someone’s legs start falling asleep; for the moment it’s the best way to get as much contact as they can.

“So you and Dean, huh?” Jensen says.  He sounds curious and amused, and Misha’s startled into laughing.

“How’d you know?” he asks.

“Jay might not’ve picked it up, but I heard what you didn’t say.”  He shrugs.  “Once in a lifetime, Mish.  I’d’ve done it too.”

“Sounds like you and Castiel hardly even talked,” Misha says, and Jensen’s face gets far away and thoughtful.

“Yeah,” he says slowly.  “He’s…don’t get me wrong, you’ve got him down, but in person there’s something…I don’t even know.  Dean’s a brave man, that’s all I can say.”

“I made Dean promise to kiss him,” Misha says.  “And I told Sam so he can’t chicken out.”

Jensen laughs and says, “Good.  About time.”

* * *

That night, Misha dreams.

He dreams of the living room of Bobby's house, Sam rapping on the solid walls in relief.  Dean asks him to stay, so he does.  He stays even when Dean says quietly, "Look me in the eye and tell me you're not working with Crowley," and he can't.

He dreams of Sam's anger, and Bobby's, and that Dean is strangely quiet through the recriminations and the explanations and the beginnings of planning, but at the end of it he feels _hope_ as he hasn't since his war with Raphael began--since he accepted Crowley's offer.

He dreams it's late enough to be early when Sam and Bobby finally depart for their beds.  When they're gone Dean looks uncertain in a way he's never seen before, and says, "I'm gonna...just don't fly away, OK?", and he nods, not understanding.  Not until Dean moves close to him, and leans even closer, slowly, until their lips meet.

He dreams of Dean's soul in his eyes, brighter and brighter as he chants Castiel's name.

When the dream fades Misha wakes slowly to find Jensen watching him with a smile that's all his, nothing at all of Dean Winchester in it.  "Good dream?" he asks, and Misha nods.  He stretches, yawns, and settles more comfortably into Jensen's side.  There's a bar of sunlight falling over the bed and they'll have to get up soon, because there's make-up work to be done today, but for now he's going to stay right where he is.

"I think they're going to be OK," Misha says.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be straight-up (uh...no pun intended) porn. I saw a prompt on LJ that was along the lines of "Misha can tell this isn't his boyfriend, but is that going to stop him from fucking him? Of course not." And I thought, heck, why not? I've never written slash, I'll give it a go.
> 
> Then it sprouted a plot, and characters who weren't caricatures, and twenty thousand words later it's done.
> 
> As far as I'm concerned, Team Free Will comes up with some horribly clever plan involving Gabriel's sword and some help from Kali to spike Raphael right in the face, and everyone lives happily ever after and there are no Leviathans ever ever EVER. So there.
> 
> And yes, there is going to be "What happened to J2 in Winchester-land". But I have other things that need to get done first.


End file.
